Current Mood: exhausted

Entry tags:

poem

Whispered Grey Longing

Softly touch my left hand
It feels likes butter
Melting on plastic
That is panic
That is confusion
Seven dreams I had
Are all coming true
But I wake up and I see
Ceiling, white, blurring
I only wish for everything
And then I may be less sad
There are people
There are countries dying
And I still presume to complain
That my heart is longing
Deeply stroke me
Remove my needs, for a while
And soften my senses
Those that prick so harshly
Every day, each singular day
Tongues slide easily over honey
So beguile me, so comfort me
I cannot live
Otherwise
Touch me

- James Mulligan

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